


Clear as the Mud

by never_wanted_to_dance



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (disclaimer: this fic does not take place at christmas), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Coffee Shops, Confusion, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Mistaken Identity, This is just gonna be a short bit of fluff, because it's christmas so why not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-02-18 13:51:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13101528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/never_wanted_to_dance/pseuds/never_wanted_to_dance
Summary: Prompt: you wrote my name down wrong the first time i came here and i didn’t correct you, but you’re really sweet and now i don’t know how to tell you you’ve been calling me by the wrong name for the past month. Dean works at the Talkhouse, a non-hipster hipster cafe. Cas has a difficult name. Short, silly and fluffy, because what the world needs is another CoffeeShop!AU, of course.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the song 'Blue as your eyes' by Scouting for Girls - it's a lovely song, and one of my favourite little bops!
> 
> Feel free to click the links throughout if you have headphones in :)

All things considered, Dean mused, there were definitely worse places to work than the Talkhouse. Charlie’s $6 an hour job at the record store seemed to mostly consist of sweeping, standing, and navigating the awkward come-ons of deeply misguided hipsters with more beard than brain in the dimly lit aisles. Benny slaved away his weekends in some back-alley gumbo kitchen that left him smelling more like grease than human by Sunday night, Victor spent his hours chained to a desk inputting mindless numbers that had something or other to do with insurance, and the less that could be said about Jo’s job in the old-man bar with endless creeps who didn’t tip enough, the better.

The Talkhouse was clean enough to not feel like you needed an acid bath every time you finished a shift, and cheap and boring enough to avoid the gentrified crowd that this end of town sometimes tended towards. Although it was always busy, most of the regulars, largely students and young mothers, were quiet and boring – Dean’s favourite type of customer, as they usually just took their coffee straight, drank it and left. He’d be lying if he said the local radio station didn’t grate on him after a solid seven hours, or if he said that he didn’t mind the constant smell of caffeine and milk that had managed to seep into every item of clothing in his wardrobe, but the tips were decent, the air-con worked, and the hours were fine.

“Oi Dean, fancy clearing some tables out here?”

Carl’s voice cut through the whiny pop ballad and the hissing of the coffee steamer through to where Dean leant back on the counter, half-heartedly sipping from an old chipped mug and enjoying what had been a precious few minutes of peace.

“Doesn’t anybody else work here, Carl?” he grumbled, putting down the cup and ducking under the low counter. “I could have sworn you did actually hire some other staff at some point.”

“What can I say, nobody can clear tables like you do.” His boss ducked the rag that came flying towards him with practiced ease, winding back through the low tables towards the counter. “You know fine well that Alex and Kevin have finals today, I heard you reminding them both to get a good night’s sleep yesterday.”

Dean coloured, glancing over at the smug face that turned his way, and walked quicker towards the back tables. “That’s… shut up.”

Carl’s quiet chuckling response carried shockingly well, despite the general hubbub.

It wasn’t particularly busy now at least, he noted, gathering up a few errant napkins and stacking some plates. There had been an adorable mother and baby group in earlier, which had begun as fairly cute background noise, but soon unfortunately descended into a whole lot of yelling and crying, as these things always inevitably seemed to. Mid-week summer shifts were his least favourite, but they did tend to be easier, even without the help of the two teenagers who usually spent most of their part-time shifts chittering in his ear and gossiping behind the counter.

The lazy afternoon sun filtered in through the big windows now as he reached the front of the store. Carl had insisted on painting the frames a bright blue a few months back, which clashed terribly with the dark wooden floor inside and red door, but the customers didn’t seem to mind too much.  It wasn’t exactly modern, but it did feel homely and welcoming, and that was good enough for most. Dean gathered up a few more mugs and turned to return them to the counter, hearing the door clink open behind him, hitting the annoying wind chimes that Carl’s well-meaning mother in law had donated to the shop a few months back, and nobody had managed to ‘accidentally’ break yet. Dean was plotting an elaborate fall involving a broom and a ladder at some point in the near future.

Sliding back under the counter, Dean edged around his manager to reach the sink and dump the dishes as Carl pasted on his customer-face and greeted the newcomers. It was steady work, boring sometimes, but it paid the rent and kept the fridge reasonably full. Or at least, as full as it could get with a hungry hollow-boned 17-year-old sibling on the loose. Dean made a mental note to go to the grocery store on the way home before Sam returned from school as he switched on the taps and began the regular soothing routine of washing out the mugs.

“Hey Dean, do me a medium double-shot mocha to go please?”

Carl’s voice called over, snapping him out of his daydream of that evening’s dinner, and he snapped off the water. Three more customers had walked in, one with a tiny child, and a short queue was starting to form, so the dishes would have to wait.

“No problem, name?”

The tiny child began to scream for no apparent reason, and Dean winced – never a good sign. Carl turned back to the register, preoccupied, so Dean approached the waiting customer himself. The man on the other side was about his age, a little shorter, with wind-ruffled dark hair and the impatient air of somebody with better places to be. A young professor maybe, he guessed, or an office-worker at one of those places downtown that had slides and beanbags and didn’t seem to actually do any real work. His eyes were kind though, snapping up as they did when Dean leaned over and waved vaguely to try and draw some attention – blue and dark and downright gorgeous. Dean cleared his throat. _Not the time._

Over the ever-increasing din to his left, Dean held up the to-go cup and mimed writing on it, hoping the guy would catch on. He did, thankfully, and replied with something that Dean had no chance of hearing as the child reached near-sonic levels of tantrum.

“Sorry man, what was that?”

The man frowned, and tried again, taking a step away from the howling toddler. “…-iel”

“Neil?” Dean half-yelled back, trying not to add to the noise too much. He doubted whether he was audible at first, but the man nodded, looking relieved. “Alright, one medium double-shot mocha comin’ right up.” He scrawled the name on the mug and settled into the usual motions of pulling and pushing levers, the smell of well-roasted beans drifting up and into the space around him. Carl gave the toddler a complimentary cookie which seemed to shut him up, bringing the noise levels down to a less ear-splitting level to the gratitude of all. Finishing up with a sprinkle of cocoa, Dean snapped on the lid and went to hand over the drink.

The guy wasn’t looking too impatient despite his initial apparent hurry to begin with, he was glad to find, and seemed to be watching their every move intently. His eyes snapped up to meet Deans as he placed the drink on the counter, drifting down to take it without so much as a glance at it, and coming to rest on Dean’s nametag.

“Thank you – Dean, is it?”

Dean cleared his throat again. _Jesus are there coffee grounds in the air today or what?_ That voice was way deeper than he’d expected, and added an unexpected layer of intensity to a conversation that he literally had around a billion times a day with different customers. “Yeah, Dean. No worries man, see you next time.”

The guy – Neil, was it? – nodded seriously and spun around to leave with both hands wrapped around the mug like a cat around a radiator, despite the perfectly reasonable 70-degree day outside. He walked purposefully, like he was late for something, and his sensible white shirt gleamed in the sun outside as he stepped out of the door. Dean watched him go for way longer than intended, until Carl flicked a disgustingly damp cloth at his face, reminding him that a counter full of customers still awaited drinks. Scowling, he moved back to the machine to pick up the next order, the sounds of [some irritating British pop song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=etgYb0LIJds) filling the quietened room again as Carl flicked on the radio. The machines clanked and clinked on in their usual rhythm, and Dean felt himself calming mostly back into his usual mixture of boredom and routine. _That was… weird._


	2. Chapter 2

“No way are they still together.” 

“They are, I swear! My cousin went to see them just last year. The lead singer gained loads of weight apparently, but they’re still touring.”

“Huh, who’d have thought it.”

Dean leant back against the counter, squinting in the mid-morning sun reflecting off the windows. Alex flicked a few switches on the vintage coffee machine to her right and it chugged on into a noisy rinse cycle. It had been a slow morning, to say the least. Now that the youngsters (Dean could almost hear Kevin’s irritated protesting at the term in his head) were finished with finals, Carl had stepped back to his usual majorly-office based role, leaving Dean in charge most days. Only problem was, as the temperatures climbed, people were less and less inclined to sit indoors and drink hot drinks. Air conditioning could only go so far in the sweltering Kansas summer, and it was much more inviting for most to head down to Clinton Lake and turn slowly pink in the growing sun. Dean wished he could do the same.

  
“Hey, is it alright if I take my break now?”

Dean shrugged, turning to look at Alex. “Dude, I’m not your boss, take it whenever you want. We’re not exactly run off our feet today.”

Alex grinned, tugging her apron off over her head and smoothing down her hair. “I won’t be long, it’s just that my sister is in town this week and she’s getting in today, so I said I’d go meet her and give her the keys to my place so she can let herself in.”

“I didn’t know you had a sister?” Dean raised an eyebrow.

“Well, adopted sister. We’re both adopted, we were fostered by the same woman and she adopted us both. She’s called Claire, she’s pretty much the same age as me. I’ll see if she wants to swing by at some point before she leaves.”

Dean smiled at his usually quiet co-worker’s enthusiasm. Alex had been a tricky one to figure out initially – she was reserved and obviously super clever, and sometimes leant too far towards the grumpier side of good customer service, but the patrons loved her all the same. It was nice to see her relaxed enough to talk about her family.

“Sure, why not. She can’t be worse than you, anyhow.”

Alex snorted. “Oh, you’d be surprised.” She shrugged on her jacket and ducked under the counter. “Are we ever gonna fix the hinges on this thing?”

“Probably not. See you soon.”

“See ya.”

  
Dean turned away towards the burbling coffee machine, snatching out the rinse pot and dumping it in the sink, nimbly replacing it with a new drip pot and flicking the switches back onto brew. He reached over to flip the incredibly [peppy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Go7gn6dugu0) radio station onto a less offensive one – Alex had an entirely unexpected love for disco music, which she would readily blame on anybody else in the vicinity if questioned. Soon the shop filled with the soothing tones of Roger Waters – and if the lone customer sat in the far corner minded, she raised no objections. He grabbed a jug of milk from the under-counter fridge and started filling some jugs, drumming his fingers along to the mid-song weirdness of ‘Comfortably Numb’.

"Ahem.”

Dean spun around, milk jug in hand. Stood at the counter, eyebrow raised in amusement, was the blue-eyed customer from the previous week. He felt himself flushing slightly, immediately cursing himself for doing so.

“Oh, hey, sorry man. Didn’t hear the door.”

The man half-smiled and jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. He looked more casual today, dressed in a trendy 1920’s style coat, loose over a light shirt and dark trousers. _And sinfully ruffled hair._ “Actually, I think your bell is broken, it didn’t make the noise like last time.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Typical. I’ll have to fix that later then. What can I get for you?”

“Medium double-shot mocha, please. To go.”

“It’ll be a few minutes, if that’s okay? The machine is just warming back up, we’ve had er – a bit of a slow morning.”

He smiled back properly. “That will be fine.”

Dean nodded awkwardly, not sure at all why, and ducked behind the counter to set things in motion.

  
“So, do you own this place?”

Dean peeked over the top of the machine. The guy – aha, Neil! That was his name – was looking around The Talkhouse with interest. “Sorry?”

“You said you’d have to fix the door, is this your shop?”

“Nah, I just work here, but i’m handier with a hammer than the owner, so I pitch in.” Dean turned on the milk steamer with an obnoxious hiss. “He once managed to staple his own shirt to the floor, it’s honestly better for everyone involved if he lets me do it.”

Neil laughed, nodding. “I can relate. I’m a menace with any and all power tools.”

Dean grinned, grabbing a paper cup from the counter and a pen from his pocket to scribble on the name. It was entirely unnecessary in such an empty store, but he wanted to prove that he remembered the guy’s name at least – Carl was insistent that most of the reason they held their own against the large chains in town was because of their ‘friendly neighbourhood approachability’, whatever the hell that meant. He was pretty sure that at least some of it was about remembering names, though. 

“Well, lucky for us that you don’t have to fix the door then.” Dean winked and handed over the cup. “That’ll be $3.90 please, no charge for the double-shot.”

Neil grinned back, grabbing some bills out of his wallet. “Thanks.” He took the cup and glanced down at it, opening his mouth and then seeming to change his mind and close it again. Dean’s eyes flickered down to his lips unintentionally, and felt his mouth open without his permission. “Something wrong?” he asked, a slight amount of trepidation creeping into his voice. Neil looked up, blue eyes shining brighter than ever.

“Nothing at all.” He took the cup and smiled, palming his wallet back into his trouser pocket. “See you next time, Dean.”

Dean automatically glanced down at his apron, and the space on his chest where his name badge should have been – unfortunately, Sammy had thrown it into the laundry a few days earlier, and he hadn’t managed to replace it yet. He watched as the guy turned to leave, cutting a striking figure against the sun glare from the front windows. “See you... soon.” He managed to get out before the door closed, although probably far too quietly to reach the man who was walking as purposefully as he had the first time.

  
_Well, silver linings_. Dean thought, as the remaining customer finished her cappuccino and headed out as well a few moments later. _At least nobody else saw that._


	3. Chapter 3

When Sam was around 10, he had a brief phase of really, really hating all kinds of food. Dean remembered their mom cooking everything she could possibly think of – pasta, pizza, noodles, sloppy joes, steaks, salads – the kid just wouldn’t touch anything. He was shorter than all the other kids in his class, just a slight little thing, and Dean? Well, Dean worried, as Dean was built to do.

Of course, it wasn’t long before they struck on something he would eat (pumpkin soup, the little weirdo) and he grew out of being picky before long. Literally, Dean mused furiously, staring up at the awkwardly balanced pile of cereal boxes stacked on top of the cabinet, just a few millimetres out of his reach. _What a douche._ Shuffling and straining upwards, Dean managed to grab a box of something cinnamon-like without causing a complete avalanche or resorting to chair climbing (a feat his dignity was sure to never recover from), and strode back to the table.

It was nice, he thought as he crunched, to be working the late shift for once on a weekend. Kevin was at his other job, but Alex had jumped at the chance to open, muttering something about going for dinner with her sister later. Morning on a Saturday was always peak time, and it inevitably stressed Dean out to be serving twenty or more customers in a row without any time to wipe down the machines or clear up in between. Much more pleasant to be having a slow breakfast as the sun streamed in, enjoying the rare segment of peace and quiet.

 _Also, he doesn’t come by on a Saturday morning._ Dean winced, chewing harder as if it would block out his own thoughts. It was true, the blue-eyed guy never showed up until later on a Saturday, if at all. He seemed to have decided to make The Talkhouse his local over the past few weeks, stopping by most days for a mocha or some horrendously sugary frozen drink, always lingering with a smile or a tiny anecdote about his day for Dean. It was way beyond the point of trying to pretend he wasn’t actively rearranging service behind the counter so that he was the one to serve this guy, Dean mused, but not quite at the point of making anything further out of it and slipping his number along on a coffee sleeve. _Hell, you don’t even know if he likes you. Might just be a genuinely friendly dude._

A distant crash echoed throughout the house; the unmistakable sound of a 17-year old douchebag tumbling out of bed and apparently, hitting every object in his room on the way. Dean sighed, standing to grab another mug for the coffee pot just as Sam strolled into the room, more yawn than face.

“Hey man. You not working today?”

“Afternoon shift. You have a good twelve-hour sleep?”

Sam stuck out his tongue, grabbing the mug to pour a healthy dose of caffeine. “I’m a growing boy, I need sleep.”

“You grow any more and we’ll need a roof extension, freak.”

Dean ducked automatically under the elbow directed at his head as he stood up to clear the dishes. “Will I see you for dinner tonight?”

Sam shrugged noncommittally. “Nothing planned, I might meet up with Kevin later but we’ll probably just come here and play Destiny or something.”

“Oh great, so I’m feeding my own co-workers again.”

“You love it, Dean” Sam laughed, eyes sparkling as he downed the last of his coffee. “You off now?”

Dean nodded. “I’ll be home by seven. Let me know what you and child genius want for dinner.” Sam nodded, already moving onto devouring some sort of toaster pancake that must have been leftover in the fridge. “See ya.”  

As the door clicked behind him, Dean felt a familiar weight settle onto him, despite the bright and already beautifully warm morning. It wasn’t easy, co-habiting with your brother, and less so when your brother was of such an awkward age as seventeen, but as he was more than aware, it could be way worse. It was four years now that they’d been on their own since their mom died, limping and struggling along at first, but slowly finding their feet with the help of many invaluable friends. It had been a long road, and Dean often found himself with the sinking feeling that they still hadn’t quite reached their destination yet.

***

“Hello Dean.”

Dean spun around. “Damn man, we need to get you a bell.”

Neil laughed, eyes crinkling at the corners which was, in Dean’s humble opinion, just unfairly attractive, really. “I think probably just putting a new bell up on the front door would do.”

“Ah yeah, keep meaning to get around to that. Carl needs to sign it off on the outgoings.” Dean shrugged, trying his utmost not to stare. Today’s outfit was unusually casual, probably due to the scorching day it was promising to be outside – a grey polo and well-fitting khakis, the epitome of summer office wear and country club chic, and everything Dean hated on principle. It looked fucking delicious. “What can I get ya today?”

“I think I’ll have a sweet iced tea today. Heavy on the tea, light on the ice.”

Dean laughed a little, ringing up the order. It was buzzing with conversation in the store, with a few busy tables of customers chatting and laughing and busily typing away on laptops, plugged into their own little worlds. “If I didn’t know any better I’d say that’s a hangover drink. Or at least, it’s definitely mine.” He looked up, and was amused to see his customer flushing slightly. “Oh?”

“Yes, well. There was a leaving celebration at work yesterday, a long-time colleague. Would have been rude not to attend.”

“Sounds awesome.” Dean shook the sugar syrup way more vigorously than it needed to be shaken, chucking some of it in the general direction of a cup filled with crushed ice. “I er, hope you had fun.”

A dry chuckle drifted across the counter. “Well, you might say that I don’t get out much, so any sort of socialising is probably more fun than I usually get. I usually prefer a quiet night of Netflix and good company, to be honest.”

A tiny, deep-buried switch flicked somewhere in Dean’s brain. _Dude, he’s totally flirting with you._ He looked up, stirring the tea with a practiced hand. Blue eyes gazed back deep into his, smile a little crooked and unsure beneath, but beautifully honest and exciting. The shop was buzzing with the usual Saturday afternoon crowd, but it all faded into obscurity in the reflection of those inscrutable eyes.

“I, erm. Me either. I mean, me too. I mean – um.”

Dean shuffled along the counter, reaching for the usual sharpie and fumbling it so that it dropped right into the drip tray. _Right, smooth._ The indulgent smile across the coffee machine persisted nonetheless, imbuing the stuffy air with usual lightness. He recovered it and scribbled the usual name without especially looking, and clipped the lid into place. The transaction was quick, painless. Their hands didn’t even brush. And yet the smile persisted. He grinned back, unable to put weight to any words struggling to form in the remaining coherent corners of his brain. A step backwards, a turn towards the door, and Dean exhaled, finally. _Maybe next time._

He shook his shoulders a little, vowing to bring along some damn crib notes to the conversation next time. The radio hummed along into a new song, bleeding seamlessly into some [live acoustic song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cHo8yZfpr-E) that Dean vaguely recognised from Carl’s regular playlists. It was soothing, enveloping the buzz of chatter from the college kids and the snuffling babies perched on knees scattered around the shop.

“Dean?”

Dean spun around. _Crap._ “Oh hey man, did you er, forget something?”

The smile was definitely shaky now. Neil took a deep breath, the hand not clasped around his tea fidgeting with a loose thread. “Dean, I just was wondering, would you, erm. Would you like to go for dinner sometime?”

The last part came out all in a hurry, words jumbling out of their places in their hurry to escape. Dean could only stare, as a pink blush rose from the neck of the light grey polo once again, flooding pale skin with a decadent flush. It was intoxicating, drawing his gaze like a flickering light and definitely not helping the already stuffy air between them.

_Dude, you haven’t said anything in like 20 whole seconds._

Dean snapped out of it. The guy of his actual literal dreams was somehow, still patiently stood there waiting for an answer. An answer to the date he had just asked him on. Like, actually, in real life.

“Fuck, I mean – of course, I would man!” Dean managed to spit out, throwing down the rag in his hand. “I mean – yes. That sounds good.” Now it was his turn to flush pink but thankfully, the object of his awkward attentions was laughing in a non-scared manner.

“I’m glad you agree.” Neil pulled out a scrap of paper, and scribbled down a number on it with a pencil produced in a movement so swift only a teacher could have conjured it. “Maybe give me a call sometime? There’s a great burger joint downtown that my roommate won’t stop talking about.”

“That sounds ideal.” Dean took the paper almost shyly, revelling in the slow brush of their fingers this time. “I’ll er, drop you a line soon.”

Neil smiled wider, unsurity all but wiped from his face now as he shrugged his bag back onto his shoulder. “I look forward to it.” He spun around once again, heading for the door. Dean watched fondly as he side-stepped a table full of college girls and edged gingerly around a stroller, careful not to bump anybody.

The door jingled open just as he reached it, a small man pushing impatiently through it and shrugging off his light jacket with a sheen of sweat on his forehead. Kevin strode in, gazing around to spot Dean, who lifted a hand in greeting to him from behind the register. Kevin grinned, wandering in until…

“Castiel? Is that you?”

Dean looked up, expecting to see Kevin shouting at a random college friend from across the room, but he seemed to be staring right at… Neil?

“Cas! I haven’t seen you in forever man, how’s things? Everything going well with the project?”

Kevin clapped a friendly hand to his shoulder, seemingly impervious to the awkward air surrounding the man he had accosted by the door.

Dean could only stare, as a quiet reply was made out of his earshot, and Neil – or not Neil? – hurried out of the door, Kevin turning to stare after him in confusion as he went. Kevin stared for a moment, then shrugged and headed over, pulling a nametag out of his badge as he ducked under the counter. He rolled his shoulders and sighed, stretching his neck out from side to side, and looked over at Dean with an unfairly perky grin.

“So, anything interesting happen yet today? What’d I miss?”


	4. Chapter 4

The rustic wooden table shook slightly as a crowd of children thundered by, followed closely by a worried looking father with a baby strapped to his back, and Dean re-steadied his milkshake. Burger Bros, as it turned out, was a small suburban-looking place that teetered right on the joining edges of homely and hipster, filled with early-lunching families enjoying their Saturday morning among frankly delectable smells.

It had been reasonably pleasant place to spend ten minutes alone so far, Dean mused – although it was entirely his own fault that he was alone at all, considering how early he was.

It had taken him several beers and a number of pep talks (friends, Carl, even Sam, briefly) before he’d drawn up the courage to text the number, and several more of both each before he’d tentatively arranged a weekend date for the following week. Neil, or Castiel, or whatever the hell his name was didn’t seem keen to explain much over the beautiful medium of text, and so Dean was still none the wiser about whatever the hell was going on here.

And so he waited, and stressed, and worried, and altogether slacked off at work for five straight days before finally wandering on down to this expensive neighbourhood to hopefully meet a man with no name and eyes bluer than they had any damn right to be.

Still, he thought as an especially delicious waft of air brushed past him as a waitress hurried by with a heavy-laden tray, the worst that was going to come out of this was at _least_ some delicious burgers. Worse Saturday mornings had definitely been had.

Dean took a deep breath as the door pushed open, bell tinkling with a quiet ring a few tables down from his seat. _Here we go._

He was wearing jeans today, the first time Dean had ever seen him in those, and a striped green shirt. It was well-chosen and just smart-casual enough to somehow make Dean feel under-dressed in a god damn burger joint. He picked his way through the tables, smoothing down ruffled blackthorns of hair with a casual hand as he spotted Dean and made his way over. Not for the first time, Dean found himself wishing that he could tear his eyes away as his dining companion sunk down into the opposite seat and smiled tentatively over at him.

“Hello Dean.”

Dean leaned back in his seat, not returning the smile. _Yet._

“I mean, I’d return the greeting dude, but I don’t know what the hell to call you anymore.”

He had the grace to blush, as it turned out, another of those gentle pink flushes creeping up from his collar and calling Dean’s name. “My name is Castiel. Cas, if you’d rather. My friends call me Cas.”

Dean snorted. “Man, I thought we were sort of friends? Or… well, whatever.” He sighed and took a noisy slurp of milkshake. A waitress was looking cautiously in their general direction but seemingly sensing the mood, turned away to give them a little extra time. “Why the hell have you been letting me call you Neil for like a month now? Do you prefer it or something?”

Cas shrugged, eyes dropping to the table as he fidgeted with his sleeve. “I think… do you remember the first time I came in? It was really noisy, kids were yelling over me?”

“Pretty standard Saturday morning, I gotta say N- Cas.” Dean hesitated, trying out the new name on his tongue. It rolled off like honey as he appraised it, matching it to the face in front of him.

“Well, I never said Neil. I said Castiel, but I think you misheard me, and then you were writing it and talking to me and just looking right at me and I just… didn’t want to mention it.” Cas was now staring so intently at the napkins beneath his hands that Dean was slightly concerned for their well-being.

“Yeah, okay, kinda awkward, I can get that. But… all the other times?” He tried, reaching out to gently nudge the worrying hands across from him. That earned him a direct stare at least, as Cas’s hands froze where they were. His cheeks were fully pink now. It made him look younger.

“You were just so _cute_.”

The words sort of fell out of Cas’s mouth, all in one barely comprehensible stream, and all Dean could do was stare. They looked at each other steadily for a few moments, quiet falling between them.

“I’ve been called a lot of things in my time, but rarely, er…” Dean felt his own neck growing warm now as he tried his best to fight off a smile. “Damn Cas, you really know how to seem cool. You’re telling me it was all an act?”

“So much.” Cas shook his head, dipping it to hide a smile. “You always seemed so professional and kind, I didn’t know if you were into me or just being nice.”

Dean smiled then, almost incredulously. “Dude, do you even realise how many wrong orders you’ve had? I once made you a mocha with three shots in it, and no chocolate, and you just walked away with it.”

“I probably didn’t even notice, I was so flustered.”

They smiled at each other, embarrassed.

“Well, we make a right pair, don’t we?” Dean rolled his shoulders, draining the last of his drink. “I er… I’m glad you asked me to meet up. Like, the first time.”

“And I’m glad you still texted. Many wouldn’t have.”

“I mean, I’m not one to turn down the promise of burgers, regardless of who’s taking me for them.”

Cas narrowed his eyes playfully at that, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, so you call me the wrong name for a month, but dinner’s on me?”

“What, I’m not _cute_ enough for it all of a sudden?” Dean winked back, picking up a menu with a flair and peering over it a few moments later. “Call it even?”

Cas grinned wider than Dean had ever seen, eyes shining with joy. “Call it even.”

He picked up his own menu and laid his other hand out on the table, and Dean felt a shiver of happiness creep up on him at the casual motion of it as he reached out to cover it with his own, rubbing circles into the tanned skin as they both browsed the food on offer, sneaking glances at each other like gleeful teenagers every so often. The air crackled with smoky goodness and other people’s conversation in the background, and enveloped them in a bubble of contentment – standing on a precipice of potential, hand in tightly-held hand.


End file.
